Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me
by gwennie3579
Summary: Arthur/Eames, post-movie. "Trust me, darling, you don't want this to be reality."


**A/N**: _My first _Inception_ fic – apologies for making it so damned depressing._

**Disclaimer**: _Not mine; wouldn't understand it even if it was._

There's a spot of blood on the toe of Eames's shoe. He notices it as he pulls Arthur against his chest, scrabbling along the floor like a crab, tugging Arthur awkwardly into his lap as he leans back against the wall. He reaches into his pocket until his fingertips meet a hard and rounded edge, and then another, a feeling that used to bring comfort, but now brings only dread.

He rubs the chips together, smooth slide of plastic on plastic, ridges flat and shiny, eroded by years of being turned over and over in his hands. He swears, loud, and it echoes in the abandoned warehouse. In his arms, Arthur stirs.

"Eames, _language_," he chides, voice gritty as rust, and Eames laughs, soft and desperate.

"Sorry, pet," Eames says, pushing a hand into Arthur's hair, breaking up the stiff gel with his fingers. Arthur leans into the touch, but he frowns, looking up at Eames through hooded, cloudy eyes. "How's the pain?" he asks, and Arthur's frown deepens.

"How do you _think_ it is?"

Eames grimaces. "Right. Sorry."

Arthur shifts around in Eames's embrace, sucking in a breath when the movement tugs on his wound. Eames winces sympathetically, and then tries to ignore the warm rush of blood that surges over the hand he's got pressed to Arthur's back.

Arthur, meantime, is looking up at him expectantly, a vaguely pissed off and impatient expression twisting his features.

"Well? What are you waiting for?"

"What?" Eames asks, reaching once more into his pocket. Still there, still gliding against one another in that same old way, in the way that only he knows. He clenches his jaw, looks down at Arthur, who's scrutinizing his face.

"Why haven't you ended this?" he asks, and Eames's chest seizes up violently.

"I don't know what you mean," he says, even though he damn well does, he _does_, and what's going to happen next is very likely to kill him.

Arthur lets out an exasperated huff. "Why haven't you finished it? You've got your gun, so you can - oh, no." Arthur's eyes widen a little, exposing more of that rich brown that Eames now knows he hasn't, can't, _won't_ see enough of, and the point man groans. "You haven't lost it again, have you? Dammit, Eames, I've told you how many times now? Even in a dream you can't just -"

But Arthur's tirade is cut short by a ragged gasp, followed by a cough that rattles his entire body. Eames clutches at him, holding him still, murmuring soft and low in his ear.

"Hush, darling," Eames whispers, and when Arthur doesn't tell him to stuff it, Eames thinks with a panicked sort of logic that maybe it _is _a dream, because Arthur's never once let him off the hook for that, and maybe his totem is wrong, maybe it's -

"Real," Arthur says, no more than a soft exhalation against Eames's jaw, and he shivers in spite of himself, in spite of the situation.

"What was that, love?" he asks, feigning nonchalance, but Arthur looks up at him with eyes that can see right through him, even now, as they always have.

"Not a… dream," Arthur says, wincing a little as another wet cough starts somewhere deep in his lungs.

Eames smiles - no, he _beams_ - down at Arthur, and it's probably the hardest forge he's ever pulled off.

"Of course it isn't," he says, easy and light, and he has to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek when Arthur's mouth and eyes slacken with relief. "I've just forgotten my gun, like you said, and now we've got to wait here on Cobb to come get us. You know I'm always bollocksing everything up," he adds, giving Arthur a sheepish grin.

"That's… true," Arthur says, wheezing a little, and Eames chuckles.

"There now," he says, and it's a risk, but he runs the back of his hand over Arthur's cheek. "I think you're feeling better already."

"Doesn't hurt as much," Arthur agrees, and his eyes slips shut and he turns his face toward Eames's touch.

"Jesus," Eames says quietly, and he's not sure if it's a prayer or a condemnation. Either way, there's no answer, save for the soft rasp of Arthur's slowing breath and a hushed patter of rain on the tin roof miles above them.

"Hm?"

"Nothing, love," Eames says, leaning his face down to press his nose into Arthur's hair, just above his ear. "Just rest now," he whispers, and Arthur nods weakly.

They're quiet for many long moments, and Eames tenses when he realizes he's lost the pattern of the other man's breathing.

"Arthur?" he says, shaking him gently. "_Arthur_?"

"Eames," Arthur sighs, turning his face so that their lips are nearly brushing. "I think you've been lying to me."

Eames swallows hard. He wants to touch Arthur's face again, but his hands are sticky with blood. "Lying about what?"

"About this being a dream."

"What else would it be, love?"

Arthur lifts his shoulder a bare millimeter in what Eames suspects is meant to be a shrug. "Reality," he says, and it doesn't sound like a death sentence at all.

"Trust me, darling, you don't want this to be reality."

"Want _this _to be real," Arthur murmurs, and then he turns his head just a little further so their lips are touching. It's soft and unsure and there's no heat, no force behind it, but Eames takes it anyway. He takes it because it's all he'll ever get, and if he'd known, if he'd only _known_, he'd have been taking for so much longer.

Eames pulls away when Arthur moves, lifting his hips and putting one hand on Eames's arm for leverage.

"I don't think now is the right time to be getting frisky," Eames says with a laugh, and Arthur, god love him, manages to roll his eyes.

It doesn't take Eames long to figure out what he wants, though, when he reaches his free hand into his pocket.

"There's no point, love," Eames says, stopping him with a hand over Arthur's, resting lightly over the fine tailored fabric of his slacks.

"I have to," Arthur says, and Eames nods, understanding. He watches as Arthur fumbles around, fingers seeking, but he doesn't offer to help. Finally, Arthur pulls out the small red die, gripping it tightly in his clenched fist.

Eames hears the clatter it makes when Arthur drops it to the cement floor, and he doesn't want to look at it, doesn't know what it'll mean anyway, because it's not his totem, but he does. He looks, and he sees the innocent looking die sitting silently on two, and then he looks back at Arthur.

But Arthur isn't looking at the die. He's looking at Eames, and he's sliding his arm around Eames's neck, and he's pulling him down so that their lips meet again, and Eames stops caring whether this is reality or a dream, because whatever it is, it's _now_, and it's real, and no one and nothing will be able to take this one singular moment away from him.

Outside there are voices, and the rain is falling harder on the roof, but Eames doesn't hear.


End file.
